“What do you mean? I love you, you know I love you. I’m in love with you!” He held her upper arms, rubbed his palms from her shoulders to elbows. A sob coursed gently through her soft, weeping body.
“You’re not.” She shook her head. “You’re not. You try to make me feel bad, you like to make me jealous…” Her voice cracked and her body broke under a small current of despair. “You love talking about those other girls because you know there’s no one after me. You love to be better, you’re not happy unless you’re better than me!” Of course that wasn’t true.
Well, maybe he did like the attention.
Well, maybe he liked it a lot.
But that was no reason to kill her.
“Those girls mean nothing. You’re the only one I want.” She was a sweet girl. Pretty, too. Not as drop-dead as the girls he spoke of, but decent enough.
She could use a bit more make-up.
But her body. Oh, that body was a masterpiece. A dangerous tool. Just thinking about those curves, the softness of her pale skin, her firm breasts and full hips… Just thinking about her nude in bed, willing, ready, wanting… Just thinking about it was dangerous. Touching it was deadly.
But there were other girls. Other girls with flattering figures. Maybe if she just lost a few pounds…
She was sniffing and blubbering on about being in love. She really did always have something to cry about.
But that was no reason to…
“I love you so much,” she was saying. “I never try to make you feel bad.” Her voice was thick with misery. What a disgusting sound. “I always try to make you happy.” A really horrible sound. “I try to ignore my feelings when you do this.” The agony in it. “But I can only ignore it for so long.” The grating against his ears. “You’re not even listening to me!”
But her body…
“You’re not even looking me in the face.” Horrible, betrayed misery. “You don’t even care.”
Her curves, her skin.
“Let’s make love.” It sounded and tasted ridiculous coming off his tongue. He never made love to her. He fucked. He screwed.
“How can you ask me that?” The searching eyes. Mystical, hurt gray eyes. “How can you honestly…”
“One last time.” The way it felt to undress her, to expose her… Even when she was unwilling.
Especially when she was unwilling.
The way she tried to cover herself with blankets. The way her hands slid around timidly when there were no blankets to be had. The way those small, sweet fingers would try to cover as much flesh as they could.
“Last time? So now you’re breaking up with me!” Her body prepared for the defense; closing off the sorrow, opening up the anger. She got nasty when she was angry. She was a sweet girl, all right, but when she was pissed off she meant business. “I can’t believe you!”
She was downright sexy when she was pissed.
He moved to embrace her.
“Don’t touch me, you fuck!” He loved when she screamed.
“Fuck this.” He reached for his zipper. Her eyes widened.
“That better be fake,” she said quietly. A shaky finger pointed to his waistline.
Those sweet, small fingers… How amazing they looked wrapped around him…
“You promised…” Back to the crying. “You promised you’d never use it around me or carry it around me.” The thick, ugly sound. “I never break a promise. You promised me…” Her eyes were pleading. She wanted to forgive him. She always wanted to forgive him.
“Shh.” He reached out and she slid perfectly, routinely into his arms. He moved his right hand to his waist as he kissed her head.
(The scent of her hair the feel of her body the taste of her lips the wonders of her mouth the magic of her hands)
Then he pulled the trigger.